“Excellent, excellent,” said Sir Impey.
“Ah, but we’ve decided not to prosecute,” said Mr. Murbles, shaking his head.
“Really! Oh, my dear Wimsey, this will never do. Lawyers have to live, you know. Your sister? I hadn’t the pleasure of meeting you at Riddlesdale, Lady Mary. I trust you are fully recovered.”
“Entirely, thank you,” said Mary with emphasis.
“Mr. Parker—of course your name is very familiar. Wimsey, here, can’t do a thing without you, I know. Murbles, are these gentlemen full of valuable information? I am immensely interested in this case.”
“Not just this moment, though,” put in the solicitor.
“Indeed, no. Nothing but that excellent saddle of mutton has the slightest attraction for me just now. Forgive my greed.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Murbles, beaming mildly, “let’s make a start. I fear, my dear young people, I am old-fashioned enough not to have adopted the modern practice of cocktail-drinking.”
“Quite right too,” said Wimsey emphatically. “Ruins the palate and spoils the digestion. Not an English custom—rank sacrilege in this old Inn. Came from America—result, prohibition. That’s what happens to people, who don’t understand how to drink. God bless me, sir, why, you’re giving us the famous claret. It’s a sin so much as to mention a cocktail in its presence.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Murbles, “yes, that’s the Lafite ’75. It’s very seldom, very seldom, I bring it out for anybody under fifty years of age—but you, Lord Peter, have a discrimination which would do honor to one of twice your years.”
“Thanks very much, sir; that’s a testimonial I deeply appreciate. May I circulate the bottle, sir?”
“Do, do—we will wait on ourselves, Simpson, thank you. After lunch,” continued Mr. Murbles, “I will ask you to try something really curious. An odd old client of mine died the other day, and left me a dozen of ’47 port.”
“Gad!” said Peter. “ ’47! It’ll hardly be drinkable, will it, sir?”
“I very greatly fear,” replied Mr. Murbles, “that it will not. A great pity. But I feel that some kind of homage should be paid to so notable an antiquity.”
“It would be something to say that one had tasted it,” said Peter. “Like goin’ to see the divine Sarah, you know. Voice gone, bloom gone, savor gone—but still a classic.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Murbles. “I remember her in her great days. We old fellows have the compensation of some very wonderful memories.”
“Quite right, sir,” said Peter, “and you’ll pile up plenty more yet. But what was this old gentleman doing to let a vintage like that get past its prime?”
“Mr. Featherstone was a very singular man,” said Mr. Murbles. “And yet—I don’t know. He may have been profoundly wise. He had the reputation for extreme avarice. Never bought a new suit, never took a holiday, never married, lived all his life in the same dark, narrow chambers he occupied as a briefless barrister. Yet he inherited a huge income from his father, all of which he left to accumulate. The port was laid down by the old man, who died in 1860, when my client was thirty-four. He—the son, I mean—was ninety-six when he deceased. He said no pleasure ever came up to the anticipation, and so he lived like a hermit—doing nothing, but planning all the things he might have done. He wrote an elaborate diary, containing, day by day, the record of this visionary existence which he had never dared put to the test of actuality. The diary described minutely a blissful wedded life with the woman of his dreams. Every Christmas and Easter Day a bottle of the ’47 was solemnly set upon his table and solemnly removed, unopened, at the close of his frugal meal. An earnest Christian, he anticipated great happiness after death, but, as you see, he put the pleasure off as long as possible. He died with the words, ‘He is faithful that promised’—feeling to the end the need of assurance. A very singular man, very singular indeed—far removed from the adventurous spirit of the present generation.”
“How curious and pathetic,” said Mary.
“Perhaps he had at some time set his heart on something unattainable,” said Parker.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Murbles. “People used to say that the dream-lady had not always been a dream, but that he never could bring himself to propose.”
“Ah,” said Sir Impey briskly, “the more I see and hear in the courts the more I am inclined to feel that Mr. Featherstone chose the better part.”
“And are determined to follow his example—in that respect at any rate? Eh, Sir Impey!” replied Mr. Murbles, with a mild chuckle.
Mr. Parker glanced towards the window. It was beginning to rain.
Truly enough the ’47 port was a dead thing; the merest ghost of its old flame and flavor hung about it. Lord Peter held his glass poised a moment.
“It is like the taste of a passion that has passed its noon and turned to weariness,” he said, with sudden gravity. “The only thing to do is to recognize bravely that it is dead, and put it away.” With a determined movement, he flung the remainder of the wine into the fire. The mocking smile came back to his face:
“What I like about Clive
Is that he is no longer alive—
There is a great deal to be said
For being dead.
“What classic pith and brevity in those four lines!—However, in the matter of this case, we’ve a good deal to tell you, sir.”
With the assistance of Parker, he laid before the two men of law the whole train of the investigation up to date, Lady Mary coming loyally up to the scratch with her version of the night’s proceedings.
“In fact, you see,” said Peter, “this Mr. Goyles has lost a lot by not being a murderer. We feel he would have cut a fine, sinister figure as a midnight assassin. But things bein’ as they are, you see, we must make what we can of him as a witness, what?”
“Well, Lord Peter,” said Mr. Murbles slowly, “I congratulate you and Mr. Parker on a great deal of
